


Daydream Believer

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: House of Rogues [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blossoming romances, Canon-typical violence (direct/implied), Country Boys and the Mafia, Father/Daughter Relationships, Gen, She-Wolf defends her keep, Unexpected News, employer/employee relations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 07:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Calvin Steers was always a lad of high ambition.





	Daydream Believer

**Author's Note:**

> I fully confess to seeing "RENT!" (stage version) in the process of writing this piece, so it is quite possible there are lyrically-inspired sections scattered throughout. Fair warning. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Title comes from the song "Daydream Believer" by The Monkees. No criticism on my musical preferences, please. Thank you. :)

Calvin Steers has long since been a lad of high ambition.

Such is not the typical character of a boy raised in blue-collar small-town; single-parent household from age ten with a father bent-double over his labors and working more hours than he slept. If Calvin wasn’t at school, he was tending to the household. The cleaning, the cooking, everything fell upon his young shoulders. By thirteen, it was commonplace for Calvin to balance his weekly English reading in one hand while preparing the week’s meals with another. He taught himself how to change a tire, fix minor plumbing issues, and hand-wash the family car in under an hour. Anything in the name of pinching a penny.

Growing up on a steady diet of Agatha Christie and _Sherlock Holmes_ , a career in law enforcement was glamorized early in life. Calvin went to the library every weekend to read up on donated manuals, police history books, and spent his seventeenth summer volunteering at the local sheriff’s office. The grunt work, otherwise not strictly detailed in the mystery novels of his youth, actually wasn’t terrible. But then again, few things deter a boy with grand dreams of a grander future.

Then came high school graduation, and with it, a healthy dose of reality: a career in law enforcement meant college. College costed money. Money was not a luxury in the Steers’ household. Money was a privilege earned through hard work and long hours.

All in all, the components of this equation did not add up to young Calvin packing up the car and heading upstate to the university. It was a hard blow to take, but Calvin was a country-boy from the start. He knew how to roll with the punches. So he dusted himself off, framed his high school diploma, and picked up a job at the grocery store.

The next two years were spent working odd jobs: the grocery store, a couple mechanic shops, car washing…anything to pocket a couple of bucks and pay the bills. His childhood dreams were never forgotten (for one can never truly forget the aspirations of their youth), but tucked away quietly to bookshelves and the occasional movie rental. He developed a strong work ethic, learned to love whatever he was doing (barring a short stint with a garbage collection company), and made himself a good name in the town.

Then, a purely impulsive search surged his great dreams to the surface once again: the Gotham City Police Department was hiring new officers.

For a country boy, Gotham seemed a world away. It invoked images of the big city and new horizons to explore and endless possibilities. It made his head spin nearly off its post and his nerves bubble with far too much excitement. This was it! His golden opportunity! And best of all, his lacking college degree wasn’t even a consideration! This was it!!

Father had been displeased, to state mildly. By the end of that week, they weathered no less than four fights. As Calvin packed up two bags and headed for the bus stop, his and his father barely shared a handful of words in farewell.

Gotham wasn’t…exactly what he expected. From a distance, peering through a rain-spattered bus window, it loomed like some Gothic gargoyle. The jagged silhouette almost passed for a leering smile, both inviting him to enter and mocking his decision.

The fact it rained three days following his arrival didn’t help.

The men and women of Gotham City Police Department were not the welcoming type. Within the first week of a drive-by hiring process, Calvin managed to upset two fellow patrol officers and three ranking detectives, including Detective Harvey Bullock (easily the most disagreeable one of the lot). His small-town techniques failed him multiple times on basic patrol, and Detective Bullock took no small pleasure in heralding every single time Calvin nearly got shot on duty.

Then came Detective James Gordon. “Jim” for short.

Detective Gordon was, and still is, everything Calvin looked for in a mentor. Militant in demeanor, relentless in his pursuit of justice, good-natured in small talk; Calvin had been quite star-struck from first glimpsing the man in the bullpen. Two weeks of stumbling around like a school boy, rehearsing first introductions in his head (ranging from a casual ‘Good morning’ to some in-depth philosophical discussion), amounted to nothing: Detective Gordon is a man devoted to his work, and catching him for two minutes would have taken an act of God and Congress.

Then, the stars aligned. Granted, the circumstances were not what any patrol officer with a pin-drop of human decency could desire, but this is Gotham and even a naïve country boy like Calvin couldn’t keep the rose-colored glasses on forever: violence is a disease running through this city’s veins, and new acts thereof happen every day.

Still…a mass shooting on a public street, riddling the area with bullets and blood, took his innocent roots and strangled them in a crushing grip. He heard the radio calls, one after another, and his world titled halfway to Hell.

Then it was back to business.

The chaos of the evening prevented any hope of interacting with his role-model, but after over twelve hours of nonstop disaster, Calvin lacked the energy to be disappointed. Early morning found him bleary-eyed, dragging himself towards the precinct door, and silently weeping for a homemade breakfast of flapjacks, eggs, bacon, sausage, fresh fruit, and—

—and then Detective James Gordon grabbed him by the lapels, steered him around, and told him to report, immediately, to the hospital for interviewing survivors.

Exhaustion dissipated in a blink. Interview? Survivors?? YES! Finally, Gotham threw the dumb country boy a bone! This was his chance to prove himself, to show he had everything it took to make it in this city—to impress his mentor!!

He all-but threw himself into the first patrol car available, roared out of the lot, and almost took out a gurney en route to the first witness’ hospital room. He filled an entire notebook with meticulous notes and spent at least two hours with each witness, listening to their stories, offering tissues for their tears, and holding the hands of grieving loved ones. Hours (almost two days, rather) later, he returned to the precinct: exhausted, rumpled, in need of a good bath (and a few meals), but incredibly pleased with himself.

Detective Bullock, of course, had to rain on his parade.

The lecture was well into its forty-eighth minute when Gordon happened upon them (Detective Bullock giving Calvin a good what-for on ‘quantity over quality’ and ‘wasting time’; Calvin sinking deeper into depression over his supreme failings as a human being) and cut in with a short, swift, and shameless ‘Shut it’. Ignoring his partner’s scandalized frustration, Gordon clapped Calvin on the shoulder (he nearly swooned) and half-carried him out to the car with promises of food. Expecting a quick stop at some food truck, Calvin instead found himself at a nearby diner, steaming platters of eggs, bacon, turnovers, and piping-out coffee laid out before him like the Promised Land.

For months, days usually started with Detective Gordon coming in as Calvin got off his graveyard shift; they shared a cup of coffee, some good conversation, and the cycle went on. It took some time to get off Graves, but it came none-too-soon. (Detective Bullock calls Swings shift the…well, Mrs. Steers never raised her boy to swear, so leave it to imagination.) Now, his days involve regular interaction with both Gordon and Bullock. Detective Gordon, if possible, makes time to take him out on certain calls to break up the routine nature of beat-walks.

Everything was perfect. Everything was wonderful. The fact he didn’t have any hope of college education was a back-burner thought.

And then…Gotham decided to throw the dumb country boy a curve ball.

***

In Calvin’s formative years, the mafia was something contained to movies and the occasional genre-specific novel. It wasn’t just a world away, but a universe away. Blue-collar towns didn’t have European gangsters strutting down dirt roads in Italian leather. They have gangs of young kids who throw rocks at pickup trucks. The closest Calvin ever got to the mafia was _The Godfather_ (parts one and two).

It took about three days for Calvin Steers to figure out Gotham wasn’t just a stomping ground for the mafia’s finest, but rather a breeding ground. He saw tinted car windows left and right, men in polished shoes and suits costing twice a beat-cop’s annual pay. He saw fellow patrol officers look the other way at shootings, ‘misplace’ evidence, and violate the rules of crime scene processing with barely a blink. He even watched, seething in silence, at a ranking detective pat the hand of a grieving victim after signing off on a bogus report which blatantly disregarded justice for that same victim.

It had been with sheer willpower that he walked into Mr. Ngyma’s office that afternoon with some ounce of energy. It was a long week, a whole lot of this-and-that, and a Come-to-Jesus in the bullpen which nearly saw Calvin trading punches with a couple fellows who completely botched a drive-by shooting wherein a child caught a bullet in the back of the head.

He returned to the scene, found another piece of missed evidence, and dragged himself into the morgue with dwindling hopes of Mr. Nygma working a little magic and trying to reassemble something out of this tainted mess.

Then he walked in the room to find Mr. Nygma with a feast, a relaxed smile, and a guest. A guest who happened to be a mafia don.

…A _female_ mafia don.

Iris DeLaine was not a name unknown to him, prior to that unanticipated meeting: courtesy of Detective Bullock, Calvin heard just about every grievance the man had against the woman, and there were a share of detectives with unflattering commentary to make in turn. Detective Gordon painted a different picture, but Bullock was quick to declare the man biased against his own daughter.

As such, Calvin will admit to a certain degree of…trepidation against this woman who he’d never met. He imagined her some combination of Dracula’s Daughter and Attila the Hun. He failed to understand how, or why, Detective Gordon could so swiftly defend her, even as a father. (Calvin’s father certainly had no qualms about labeling his son an idiot from time to time.) He feared her reputation and dreaded the day he might, perchance, stumble across her path.

Needless to say, the image in his head and the reality dropped in front of him were…nothing alike.

Iris DeLaine was, unashamed to say, one of the most beautiful women Calvin had ever seen. Growing up around girls of home-grown beauty, tussled hair and sun-kissed shoulders and freckled cheeks, he wasn’t prepared for Ms. DeLaine’s brand of beauty. A vision straight from Hollywood vintage, wearing Victorian velvet and sleek black boots, she didn’t fit the stereotype of mafia dons. Her smile was dazzling, her eyes a startling shade of blue, and her demeanor kindly.

She made a delicious lunch, splendid conversation, and it was remarkably easy to forget who he was talking to. Until, that is, a signed check paying Gotham University tuition in full showed up in his mailbox.

Ms. DeLaine was surprisingly compassionate in her rebuke of his presumptions (frankly, Calvin still thinks he deserved a right smack upside the head for the accusations he threw at her) but equally firm and honest in her explanations. She hid nothing from him, kept no secrets; the decision was his alone to make. Had he requested it, Calvin is sure she would have given him a month to consider the proposition.

But he hadn’t. For reasons even he has yet to understand, the answer seemed painfully simple. Detective Bullock, for months after the truth made itself apparent, accused him of ‘hopping in bed with the Devil’ just for a college education.

It was—is—more than a four-year diploma. For better or for worse, Ms. DeLaine offered him a chance to be part of something. To pursue justice without restrictions or corruption left-and-right; to be included in a group of like-minded individuals who won’t double-cross or stab him in the back (literally or figuratively); to fulfill a dream of pushing himself forward, walking across a polished stage to receive a college diploma…

…to feel like part of a family again.

***

As a general rule, he doesn’t see Ms. DeLaine too often. Occasionally, he’ll walk in Mr. Nygma’s office and see the two of them chatting. Sometimes, he glimpses her on the streets, usually through a cracked car window. But these are exceptions; Ms. DeLaine keeps her distance, doesn’t hover over her small band of loyalists. His phone never rings with her on the other line; he never gets a ‘private visit’ from that hulking mass of humanity who follows in her shadow or the panther-like man who wears her ring. Every horror story of being ‘in bed with the mob’ fades with each passing day. Ms. DeLaine is of a different breed.

But, apparently, even she breaks her own rule from time to time.

“Really, I’m fine.” Calvin promises with a lopsided grin. “You should see the other guy.”

It’s a lame pass-off, playing the tough-guy as best he can with about twenty stitches running up the left side like Frankenstein’s monster. The ice pack strapped to his right eye, the bandage around his head, and three additional stitches in his mouth complete the picture quite nicely.

Oblivious to (or ignoring) Detective Gordon’s tutting, Ms. DeLaine lifts an eyebrow and offers a dry smile. “Which one?”

Considering there were about twelve, give or take, he decides to shrug his way out of a dated quip and sink deeper into the pillows. It’s his own fault for taking a call in the Narrows without proper backup.

“To your credit,” Gordon says, still shaking his head, “the girl’s alright. A little shaken up, but that hasn’t stopped her from gushing gratitude and singing your praises.”

“A hooker’s singing my praises?” Calvin cracks another grin, “Somebody write my daddy; he’ll die from sheer pride.”

“Calvin,” Ms. DeLaine says, tone gentle but firm; she’s on a first-name basis with her employees, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling like a schoolboy chided by his momma when she uses that tone, “mind your language. She’s clearly very grateful to you—and that is not a common thing among our ladies of the street. Most of them would just as soon spit in your face than throw themselves at your feet.”

“Sorry, ma’am.”

His gaze happens to the left and spots what’s left of his uniform folded up in an evidence bag. The department will replace it, yes, but he still feels a pang deep in his gut to see it there. He worked hard for uniform: sweat, tears, and blood. Now, it’s been slashed, shredded, shot up, and bloodied to high-heaven.

(Detective Gordon offered him the bullet that grazes his head, as a souvenir. He plans to have it framed. It’s the little things, after all.)

A rapping at the door interrupts the dwindling conversation, and a nurse pokes her head in. “Your sketch artist, Detective Gordon.” She announces, half a second before the man comes in, drawing pad under one arm and pencils in the other hand.

Ms. DeLaine stands, but with a sharp gleam in her eye. “No more than an hour,” she tells the man, in a tone that offers no room for argument, and it’s a statement in-and-of itself that Detective Gordon doesn’t protest, “Officer Steers needs his rest.”

(He knows Ms. DeLaine isn’t too much his senior, but it’s kind of nice to have a ‘mom’ around, keeping after him. Lord knows, if she wasn’t around, he’d probably get himself blown up.)

***

James can never be accused of having spectacular timing, and often wants for manners these days. Still, having her door all-but kicked in at six in the morning is a new one.

“This close, Iris.” He says, pinching his index and thumb together to emphasize the point. “ _This_ close! We had evidence! We were _days_ from making an arrest!”

“Good.” She says, calmly sipping her tea. “I expect to see your evidence across the front page by tomorrow morning. Bold print and all, if you please. Maybe some pictures. The public likes pictures.”

James faintly growls at her, otherwise incoherent, and fists his hands atop her desk. “This is not how we handle things, Iris.”

“It is how _I_ handle things.” She neatly pushes herself from the desk and relocates to the filing cabinet for paperwork. Employee evaluations are, to be frank, a complete bother. She would likely benefit from a Human Resources Director, but three months of interviews amounted to nothing and she no longer has the desire to make any effort towards the matter. If you want something done right…

“Iris!” the explosion is unexpected, at least from him; his frustration is written in vivid hues across his face, knuckles white on her desktop, “ _Listen_ to me.”

“No.” she abandons the file-search with a flourish; with an abrupt whirl, she strikes the desk with flat palms. “ _You_ listen to _me_!”

(Her outbursts, too, are so rare, each one never ceases to startle. The way he nearly flinches from her presence testifies to as much.)

“Those men and women wear my seal on their badges.” she speaks slowly, deliberately, fingertips pressing into gleaming wood. “They pledged themselves to me, to my purpose and my intentions, and every day they step out into a city which would happily see them dead in a gutter. They know the risk. They have accepted the risk. They should _not_ be at risk for their own brethren to turn like a pack of rabid rats and leave them for dead in a back alley!”

She strikes him, verbally, where there is no defense, and he visibly cringes. “Now,” she breathes, slowly, “you will publish your evidence. You will cover the front page of every newspaper with the faces of the guilty. You will declare them publicly to be the traitorous rats as which they died. And with each word, you will remind this city of what happens when you cross me! I am _She-Wolf_! I defend my keep, and those who harm what is mine will die _screaming_!”

“So you’ve demonstrated!” he fires back, shoving away from the desk. His body language speaks to a departure; she won’t allow it.

“Oh, so _that_ is the lynch pin, is it?” he pauses, mid-step, but won’t face her. “It is permissible for Detective James Gordon to take off his badge, to go rogue for a night, all in the name of avenging those he calls family—but _only_ if they are scum! Only if the guilty parties are known by their tattoos and foul tongues and mile-long criminal histories! But should the guilty wear the same badge as Detective Gordon, or the uniform of Gotham’s finest, _then_ it is a sin!”

“There is a line, Iris!” this is tame, compared to the last fight they weathered, and yet she feels it strikes fiercer than any verbal combat between them: digs deep to infected roots which have only before been ignored or bandaged without proper treatment. “Your husband crossed it— _you_ crossed it!”

Her limbs seize, tight, and her next breath flares within the nostrils. “Who do you think you are,” she breathes, “to tell me where the lines are drawn?”

“As your father—”

“No.” she shakes her head, violently, “not my father. You are not my father, when you speak this way. You are James. James who lives for, breathes in, and is in love with his work. James who buries himself and hides in his work.”

The lines plunge deep between his brows. “Hiding? From _what_?” he attempts to mock her with his tone, but it fails entirely.

“Your failure. Your loneliness. Every single lie that makes up your existence.” She crosses the desk, stride strong and fierce as her tone. “The lies and hypocrisy you live every single day. Swearing to the oath of protecting and serving—but only those whom you feel deserve it; only those you can protect and still uphold your prettified, watered-down image of self-righteousness.”

“That’s not—”

“But your lies have lives of their own, James Gordon.” She continues; the distance between them is short, and electricity thrums violent in the air. “They have names. They have faces. They breathe your air and share your space. …And your bed.”

His eyes dart to hers: wide, frantic, startled. He demands, without words, how she knows. She answers nothing, and finally, defeated, James turns and finds the nearest support (an armchair), to take weight his legs will no longer bear.

Iris huffs a sharp breath. “How many times are we going to cross this bridge?” she demands, none-too-gently. “How long are you determined to fight, tooth and claw, kicking and screaming? How many different times, and ways, are we destined to cycle back to the same damned point?”

Slumped in the chair, thighs spread, head lolled into his chest, James looks more defeated than she has seen him. Old. Tired. Weary. His eyes are dry of tears, yet each breath trembles past his lips. When he finally lifts his gaze, it carries burdens which should not still be upon his soul.

“I thought you had learned better.” She speaks softer now, if not yet kinder. “But for every step you take forward, there are five more in reverse.”

“I know.” he whispers; hands catch his face: press, rub, smear the skin over bones. “I know, Iris…This isn’t how I ever wanted things.” A short pause, “Some dreams are just…harder to let go.”

“What dreams?”

He offers a crooked grin. “The kind of dreams that belong in a Norman Rockwell painting,” he says, combing fingers through his hair, “not Gotham.”

“Why are you so convinced these dreams cannot be reality?” she asks, kneeling, silk rustling about her knees, “I am still your daughter. I have given you a grandchild. I have opened my doors to you, without condition. I have left you out of my affairs, to the preservation of your reputation. …And yet now I wonder if such was my mistake. Perhaps it would have been better to involve you from the beginning. If I had…perhaps you would not have found such vehement shame in your own daughter.”

He cringes. It confuses her, more than startles or injures, for his claim as father has long since been his greatest weapon, for good or other. She studies, not as a daughter, but as a student of human nature. She studies, for long minutes, and finally the truth presents itself in cold clarity.

“…When is the baby due?” Iris whispers; the words sound so distant, even from her tongue. Strange, really: she only ever considered herself as the daughter of James Gordon. Even with his dalliances, even with the women he has tried to love, it never occurred to her there might, one day, be another to join her in this honor. …Or…take her place.

“Early winter.”

“How long have you…?”

“Lee only told me two days ago.”

He speaks those words with emphasis, as if to reassure her of no kept secrets. And yet, the shock alone threatens to resemble the heartache of betrayal, should she allow it.

“You should be delighted.” She finally says, sweeping herself upright, “The child of a chief medical examiner and a police detective. It is destined to have great prospects. And it will not be such a disappointment as…” she quietly swallows, “…as I have been.”

“I asked her to marry me, Iris.” James says, without any hint of enthusiasm. Her brow furrows, a bit, as she turns to consider him again.

“Why would you do that?” she asks, genuinely puzzled. “You do not love her.”

“It’s the right thing to do.”

Her stomach clenches, violently, and she requires a moment to compose what was abruptly unraveled by his words. “Twenty-eight years ago, a promising young model happened upon the dashing heir to a multi-billion-dollar corporation. They drank, they experimented with several illicit substances, and they indulged in all manner of unmentionable congress. Two months later, she is with child. The following month, they are forcibly married in the name of old tradition and family honor. The young woman attempts to abort her child no less than five times before screaming it into the world. And for the next thirteen years, both that promising young model and dashing heir make life a living hell for themselves and for their child. All because getting married was the _right thing to do_.”

James stares at her. “You…you never told me…”

“There are numerous facts about my upbringing, and my parents’ marriage, which will remain only Victor’s to know.” she replies, words clipped and allowing no room for argument. “I do not need your pity, James. I do not need you to see me as some damaged little product of poor decisions. I need you to tell me, right now, why you ever thought marrying a woman you do not, and can never, truly love would amount to something good and pure and wholesome for your child.”

“Because babies need a mother.” He shoves himself onto both feet and begins to wear her rug into bare threads with frantic pacing. “Babies need a mother, and I can barely be a father! I’m not an idiot, Iris. Zsasz is the one who raised you. I just signed the damn papers. I didn’t know how to be a father when I had a thirteen-year-old, and now I’m supposed to know how to father a newborn? I can’t...I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Well, the choice is slightly out of your hands.” She rolls her eyes. “That baby is going to come whether you know what you are doing or not. And, honestly, James…do you think _I_ know what I am doing? What example do I have, as to how to be a mother? None. I only know that I love her with a love that defies all explanation. And, quite frankly, sometimes that is all we can offer. Sometimes, love is all we have. And we have to let that be enough.”

“But is it enough?”

As if prompted by Fate, or some other deity, the study doors open and small feet pad, bare, rush across the floor. Golden curls and emerald skirts, Celeste hurries into her mother’s space, hands already extended to showcase a prize. “Look, Mama!” she presses a small canvas into Iris’ hands, “I made it for you!”

Iris crouches down, one arm weaving gently around her daughter’s shoulders, and lays the painting flat atop her thighs. A simple assortment of color, mostly blues and greys, there is something lovely in its innocent composition. Perhaps it is the visual representation of what could be any number of things, from a rain-cast sky to the ocean waves, or perhaps (and more likely) its beauty comes from Celeste’s blue eyes and the hope brimming in their depths.

“It is beautiful, my darling.” Iris proclaims; without delay, she turns and places the canvas in a prominent place on her bookshelf. “And now,” she turns back, sweeps Celeste into both arms, and twirls lightly, “everyone who enters here will see my daughter’s brilliance. You make me so very proud, _ange_.”

James has looked nowhere but the two of them; now, as Iris returns her gaze to him, the age has left his bones and he stands straighter, comes closer with slow steps. “Celeste,” he says, gently, “I have a very grown-up question for you.”

“Okay.” She chirps, innocent and cheery as a morning bird.

“If you had nothing else in this world—no toys, no fancy house, no pretty dresses—but you had your mother’s love…” he pauses, “…would that be enough?”

Celeste does not even hesitate. “You’re silly, Grandpapa.” She smiles; both arms rope around Iris’ neck. “I love Mommy and Daddy more than anything in this _whole_ world! I don’t need toys or dresses—Mommy and Daddy love me! And I love loving them _so_ much!”

The smile that splits James’ face is the most open, most honest, and most perfect vision she’s ever seen.

*** 

Calvin returns to work after six long weeks of recovery. He’s welcomed with a hefty stack of reports to ‘edit’ (see also: ‘write from scratch’). Undeterred, he tucks himself away in the morgue, where he can enlist Mr. Nygma’s expansive vocabulary and grammatical corrections. Determined to finish every report before his shift ends, Calvin bypasses lunch and a half-hearted invitation from a few other patrol officers to go drinking around eight in the evening. Mr. Nygma, ordering takeout, generously provides him a portion (“You don’t want Iris to find out you’re starving yourself,”). Calvin hasn’t tasted sushi prior to this historical occasion, and finds it isn’t half-bad.

At half-past ten, he’s finished for the day: tired, hand cramped, but feeling a grand sense of accomplishment. Now, it’s time to retire with a textbook and get an early start on his weekly reading assignment.

“Detective Steers?”

He almost doesn’t recognize her (people tend to look different in proper illumination as opposed to back-alley shadows), but the butterfly tattoo is unmistakable in all its vibrant detail. He takes a second look, more attentive this time, and thinks she looks healthier than last time. He wonders if, perhaps, she took these past few weeks to clean up. Literally.

“I’m flattered, ma’am,” he says, with a grin, “but it’s just ‘Officer’ Steers.”

She flashes a smile; her teeth, all things considered, aren’t terrible. Could use a little whitening touch-up, but for a woman making her living on the street, not bad. “I…” she pauses, a touch of pink flushing her cheeks as her eyes flutter down, “I hope it’s okay…the guy behind the desk said I could come back here.”

The desk sergeant sorely wants for discretion, as to who is allowed past his lackluster barrier, but Calvin knows enough to keep those comments to himself (for now). “Sure. It’s fine.” He shrugs his jacket on, as though there is nothing out-of-the-ordinary about a ‘lady of the evening’ paying him a visit in the men’s locker room. “You doing alright? Looks like the bruises are healed up.”

She smiles again, nibbling her lower lip. “Yes. Thanks to you.”

“Not so,” he lightly closes the locker door, “just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

“Well, all the same,” a few strands of red slip into her eyes (soft grey eyes), and she cards a hand through the mass, “I wanted to thank you.”

“Just doin’ my job, ma’am.” He says, not without the same smile which made her blush so fetchingly before.

“Maybe to you, you were.” She says, with a spark of insistence which flies in the face of her shy demeanor—but he finds it rather…well, attractive. “But it was more than that, to me. I…I know it sounds so cliché, but…no one’s ever done something like that for me before.”

He pauses. Pauses, and takes a close look at her. Red hair, way too red to be natural, fringing grey eyes painted up thick with mascara; a denim jacket well-worn and bandaged with patches like an old quilt; a black shirt cut a little high on the hemline, and shorts too short to be legal, all finished with some threadbare tights and a pair of sneakers that have seen better days. She could be mistaken for a college gal with an odd fashion sense (and a fondness for elaborate tattoos), but her eyes are old.

“What’s your name, darling?” he finally asks; she flushes a lovely shade of rose-pink.

“Red.”

He can’t help a fond smirk. “What’s your _real_ name, Red?”

Her chapped lips quirk in a grimace, “Beatrice.”

His grin broadens. “Alright,” he’s laughing, a bit, but not as much at _her_ as he is the parents, God bless ‘em, who thought up that christening, “‘Red’ it is.”

She laughs, openly relieved. He likes her laugh: loud, carefree; not a simpering sound, but the kind of laugh that bubbles up from deep in the belly and rings in the air.

“Y’know…” he pauses, then shrugs off his scholarly ambitions (they can drop the wayside for one night) and continues, “I know it’s late, but…you hungry?”

“Starving.” She admits.

“That makes two of us.” He offers his arm, grin and all, “Cheeseburgers and sweet tea?”

“Keep talking like that, Officer,” Red giggles, hooking both arms into his, “and you’ll never get rid of me.”

His grin only widens. The gaping stares as he struts through the bullpen with her on his arm are just icing on the fluffy cake of his ridiculously good mood.


End file.
